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by batmanbemysugardaddy



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Batlantern - Freeform, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, One-Shot, PTSD, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 07:35:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batmanbemysugardaddy/pseuds/batmanbemysugardaddy
Summary: It wasn’t that Hal had meant to fall in love with Batman. Really, he hadn’t. He’d always thought it would be Superman he’d end up H-over-T for, just on account of, you know, the whole super-strength-and-no-refractory-period thing. Plus, Hal knew from a few particularly awkward run-ins with Poison Ivy over the years that the guy was hung like a horse – an impossibly muscular, Herculean, alien horse. Or maybe he would have ended up pining for Barry; sweet, boring, straight-as-can-be Barry, who was kinder to him than anyone had a goddamn right to be. He could have even seen himself getting hot for Ollie, if the guy wasn’t the type of insufferable prick that forced a bunch of ex-soldiers and current superheroes with boatloads of complex childhood trauma to attend a function that was more PTSD-nightmare than party.





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**Author's Note:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  Swearing, PTSD, panic attacks, trauma, sexual references

Contrary to popular belief, Hal Jordan wasn’t much of a party guy. Sure, he liked to have a few drinks and get a bit rowdy sometimes, but his preferred setting for that was whatever skeevy dive bar was closest to the USAF airstrip he was currently stationed at, and the only reason he even liked that was because people would take one look at the uniform and he’d drink free for the whole night.

Admittedly, there were free drinks here too, but this was no skeevy dive bar. Instead, Hal found himself pressed into a throng of people. They were packed tighter than sardines, and it took all of Hal’s will to (ironically) ignore the itching of his middle finger that longed to activate his suit and soar out of the crowd and into the rafters above. Of course, that would be what Oliver liked to call spoiling the fun, and after all, it was his birthday. Still, it would be nice if Hal could just fucking move.

Suddenly, there was a hand on the small of his back and Hal jumped instinctively at the touch. He whipped around, clutching his beer tighter in one hand and digging the other into his pocket. Partly it was to make it look like he wasn’t as bone-deep terrified as he felt, but it had the added advantage of hiding the faint glow of his ring. He felt his jaw clench as he resisted the urge to wrap his suit protectively around him. That urge only got worse as he faced the person who had touched him.

It was a woman – and a beautiful one at that. She had long brown hair and dark red lips; her fake eyelashes framed big blue eyes, a smattering of glitter over her cheekbones. Hal wondered how it would go down if he told her that he was paying more attention to her makeup than her features, which he assumed were usually the focus of men’s attention.

She was smiling at him, softly, like she was about to invite him to dance. Which she probably was, Hal realised.

His face flushed like a pre-teen, but it wasn’t because he was flattered. Someone’s shoulder had just jammed into his and he’d nearly spilled his beer. Another person’s back was pushed flush against his and he could feel a swell of body heat all around him. It was claustrophobic, to stay the least.

Then the lights overhead changed colour and began pulsating, fast and bright white like some terrible explosion reigning down overhead. In his mind’s eye, Hal was raising his right arm above the sea of carefully curled, trimmed and gelled hair to manifest a shield over all of them. He pushed the thought down as far as it would go, scared it would come true. If it did, everyone would be looking at him – like this girl was still looking at him right now.

She looked so young, though in reality she was probably only a little younger than Hal. But she had no premature greys, no early wrinkles where her grimaces and frowns had worn away at her skin. No, this girl had fucking laugh lines, because she lived in a world where she got to laugh. She lived in a world where touching the small of someone’s back was a welcome gesture, and not such a severe intrusion of personal space that it had sent Hal into a tailspin.

He wasn’t sure if it was the music pulsing up through his feet or his own heartbeat that deafened him, but it felt like a bomb had just gone off beside him. Deafened and stumbling, he dragged his eyes away from the girl with the laugh lines and surged his way through the crowd, parting them like he would a throng of confused and frightened civilians.

And shit, that’s what it was, wasn’t it? What was making him panic like this. Crowds of people weren’t social for him anymore. Even though everyone was swaying to the beat, smiling and laughing at a joke they probably hadn’t really heard over the music, Hal felt like he was undercover at some charity function for a politician or important businessman. He supposed in a way he was; it was Oliver Queen’s birthday party, after all. And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that all of these smiling faces would be screaming and running soon. Even as he made a beeline for the nearest bathroom, he was assessing which of the partygoers looked like they’d be the kind to trample over someone else to ensure they got out first, and which would stay back to help the injured and frail.

He practically tore the bathroom door off his hinges as he opened it, cursing himself for thinking that those people were the worst ones. The ones who tried to stay back and help, the heroes. They almost always got themselves killed. Selfish people were at least predictable.

And how would that girl have felt? The one who had laughed enough in her life that it had left an imprint on her face. How would she have felt, knowing that Hal sighed in relief when he saw civilians running blindly for the exits and knocking over everyone in their way. At least then he could scoop up the stragglers.

The music was quieter in here, and the lights weren’t strobing. He rounded the corner of the little u-shaped bathroom to find where the sinks were, still at a breakneck pace. He was running away, he realised, as he heard his footfalls clamouring against the tiled floor. He tried to stop himself, dimly aware that if anyone was in here they’d hear him and wonder what the hell was wrong with him, but he was too late. Rounding the corner, he barrelled right into somebody’s back.

The familiar scent of leather and vanilla bean was instantly familiar, and Hal cursed himself silently, squeezing his eyes shut and stammering an apology that probably sound like utter gibberish.

“Jordan?”

Bruce’s voice was buttery smooth and professional as ever, but somewhere underneath it all Hal sensed a hint of fear. The thought that something here had frightened the fucking Batman didn’t do anything to slow the pounding in Hal’s chest, or the way he was panting- and god, why was he panting? He’d run barely more than a few hundred feet, he shouldn’t be winded from that.

Swallowing hard, Hal told himself that Bruce’s panic was just the result of Hal’s erratic behaviour, and not of some horrible looming threat that was about to slaughter every smiling face in the next room. It didn’t quite work, but seeing Bruce pause to adjust his shirt in the mirror made him feel like the world probably wasn’t ending, if Bruce was preening himself.

Hal’s ring hand reached out and gripped the sink for balance then, which brought his hand barely an inch from Bruce’s thigh. That burning feeling ripped through him again as he caught himself wishing Bruce would just take Hal’s hand in his own so he could squeeze it like his life depended on it.

His suit flickered on for a moment then, like he was trying to use it to hide the shame, the fear, the earth-shattering fucking panic that was taking over him. It was gone as soon as it had come, though, just a flicker of green light that would have looked like an illusion if you didn’t know what to look for. Which of course, Batman did.

“Hal,” Bruce repeated, quieter now.

Those stupid blue-grey eyes softened with concern – or maybe it was pity – and Bruce inched closer to where Hal was braced, half with his hand on the sink, and half with his back against the mirror.

Bruce was wearing black trousers (naturally) and a white button down, which he’d rolled to the elbows. Over it, an oversized grey cardigan that screamed _ask me about my kid’s report card,_ but in a rich way. His trousers were high-waisted and tapered at the ankles, accentuating his frankly absurdly muscular figure. It was overwhelming to see him like this; soft and warm with the hint of bright red-and-green socks beneath his trousers and fucking loafers. The skin of his face – untouched by sunlight and the scars that had gnarled much of the rest of his body – was like tissue paper, and Hal wanted to curl up in it and disappear. But then he was picturing the Joker’s face, or lack thereof, and what had happened to his skin, and there it was again.

The crushing, inescapable horror of their lives. It made Hal want to push past Bruce and slam open each one of the stall doors behind him one by one, inspecting them for a hidden monster. His eyes drifted to them and Bruce caught his gaze – of course he did – and Hal flushed beet-red.

“They’re empty,” Bruce murmured, a tiny, quiet statement that was for Hal’s ears only.

God, his voice was like liquid velvet and Hal wanted to bathe in it, roll around in it like silk sheets.

“I already checked.”

It wasn’t that Hal had meant to fall in love with Batman. Really, he hadn’t. He’d always thought it would be Superman he’d end up H-over-T for, just on account of, you know, the whole super-strength-and-no-refractory-period thing. Plus, Hal knew from a few particularly awkward run-ins with Poison Ivy over the years that the guy was hung like a horse – an impossibly muscular, Herculean, alien horse. Or maybe he would have ended up pining for Barry; sweet, boring, straight-as-can-be Barry, who was kinder to him than anyone had a goddamn right to be. He could have even seen himself getting hot for Ollie, if the guy wasn’t the type of insufferable prick that forced a bunch of ex-soldiers and current superheroes with boatloads of complex childhood trauma to attend a function that was more PTSD-nightmare than party.

And Hal had done the mandatory therapy, okay? (And then some, if he were being honest with himself, which he rarely was.) He knew that flashing lights, crowds, and loud sounds were the most common triggers. He knew that it resulted in symptoms of panic; laboured breathing, sweating, tunnel vision, nausea, and all the rest.

Maybe that’s why he’d been drawn to Batman in the first place. Batman, who would pause for just a fraction of a second too long whenever a gun was pulled on one of his teammates. Batman, who winced at explosions and leapt into action at the mere mention of a flash-flood anywhere in the world. Gotham’s Zero Year had certainly not been kind to him – or anyone, for that matter – but Batman’s fears ran even deeper than that. Before Hal had known he was Bruce Wayne, before he’d known about Bruce’s parents, he’d wanted to ask.

_What are you seeing?_ he’d almost said once when Batman had gone shock-still in the middle of a conflict in Qurac. A couple – a man and a woman; Quraci soldiers, if Hal had to guess – had been lying dead on the ground, in each other’s arms. They’d been dead for days, by the smell of them. But by the look on his face, Batman was blaming himself for their deaths nonetheless. Hal still wondered sometimes, if Bruce had been in the desert at all in that moment, or if he’d been back in that alley in Gotham.

Bruce’s tell – his sole tell, as far as Hal was aware – was that his hands shook. He had so much control over his breathing from whatever ninja training he’d gone through, and he never let his fear control his behaviour in the field. But, for whatever reason, he didn’t seem to be able to keep his hands still. Right now, under the hazy blue lights of this too-small bathroom, they were trembling.

Shaking himself, Hal wanted to burn off some of this excess energy by snapping at Bruce, the way he had after so many missions gone awry. But then he remembered the way that Bruce had said _Hal_ so softly earlier, the way he’d thought to check the stalls too. He couldn’t believe that Batman felt half as scared as he did, but then again, he was a Green Lantern and he was fucking terrified.

He thought about biting out, _Just stop being such a stubborn prick and hold my hand._ Or maybe, _You think I don’t see the way you look at me sometimes? Now come here._ But he couldn’t imagine that going over particularly well. It would probably make Bruce retreat back into his infuriatingly fake playboy-turned-Mike-Brady shell.

So, Hal did the only thing he could think of. Or rather, he didn’t think. For a second, Hal was forgotten, and he was just Green Lantern. And maybe that was what Bruce needed; a superhero to protect him, like the one he’d made up to protect Gotham.

He grabbed Bruce’s hands with his, drawing them up to his chest and dragging the taller man with them. His ring glowed bright green and his costume sprang from it, wrapping itself around Hal’s body and then Bruce’s as well. For a second, they were both Green Lanterns; encompassed by a glowing green shield that Hal conjured around them.

Bruce’s breath was hot against Hal’s face, fogging up the mirror beside his ear, and Hal imagined Bruce pressed even closer against him, and the ring complied. Bruce’s body was pressed completely against his now, shockingly heavy because of his sheer muscle mass. Bruce’s eyes were pressed shut and his lips were parted slightly. Such soft, pillowy things. Hal didn’t know what he wanted to kiss first; his lips, his eyelids, his jaw. Maybe none of the above. Maybe they’d just stand there like this forever, trying desperately – futilely – to protect each other from the harshness of the outside world.

Hal still had his and Bruce’s hands tangled up between their chests when he let the suits he’d conjured for them fall away. Hal hadn’t even realised they’d been hovering, but now they dropped a few inches back to earth, landing with the tiniest of thuds; the type of almost inaudible sound that only two experienced superheroes would notice.

Hal expected the backlash to come then. The snarling remark about how stupid he was, or about the line he’d just crossed. He expected Bruce to growl, _let go of me_ , or maybe smash Hal’s head back against the mirror and stalk out of the room. Bruce would go all Batman on him any second, and threaten his position with the League, or give him some long-winded lecture about inappropriate workplace relationships.

Instead, Bruce was squeezing his hands back so tight Hal thought his bones might crack from it. Some tiny sound, not unlike a whimper, came from Bruce’s throat then, and Hal was wrenching his hands away from Bruce’s.

“Screw it,” he was saying before he could think about the consequences, “Screw it, screw this, just fucking-”

He cut himself off when he saw Bruce’s trembling lower lip, the way his hands were still quaking, the fucking tears in his eyes. And he couldn’t. He couldn’t look at Bruce like that anymore, couldn’t stand to see him like that, but Bruce’s huge, broad chest was still pinning him to the wall. So, before he could think, before he could be afraid, he grabbed Bruce’s jaw in both of his hands (probably a little too roughly) and crashed their mouths together.

It was wet, and sloppy, and full of teeth and tears. Neither of them were aroused and neither of them were even trying to use any sort of technique. It was by far the worst kiss of Hal’s life, but he didn’t dare stop. Not until Bruce came to his senses and made him. Which happened, as it turned out, only a few seconds later. It felt like a heartbeat.

Bruce was leaned over the sink beside him now, rinsing his face, which he dabbed with a paper towel. He didn’t say anything, but when he was done he turned around to face Hal, hands dug deep in his pockets. He cocked his head, ever so slightly, like Hal was a case that needed solving. But his eyes weren’t the narrowed, piercing blue orbs he was used to. Instead, he seemed… Curious? If Hal hadn’t known better, he might have described it as shy. But Batman didn’t get shy.

Then again, Batman probably didn’t kiss in nightclub bathrooms either. Or maybe he did; maybe that had been his gig all along. A guy who dresses up like a bat every night for ten years must be a little bit depraved, right?

“Let me take you home,” Hal said after a while, when the thought had bounced around in his head for long enough, and when Bruce had made no attempt to leave.

The distinct feeling that he was going to get his ass kicked returned again, but Bruce made no such move.

“My hotel room is a few blocks from here,” he said matter-of-factly.

And of course, after all this, Bruce would be matter-of-fact about hooking up with one of his teammates. Except that wasn’t even remotely what Hal had meant.

“No, you-” Hal sighed, cutting himself off before he could snap.

This wasn’t Batman. This wasn’t the teasing, sardonic, frustratingly arrogant, always-right, infuriatingly-tight-black-armour-wearing Batman. This wasn’t the guy who drove Hal to the brink of insanity and pushed everyone around him past what they thought was their breaking point. This was just some guy named Bruce in a fucking cardigan and loafers.

“I meant,” Hal said purposefully, meeting Bruce’s gaze and holding it, “Let me take you home.” His ring glowed for a moment as if to say, _let’s fly across the continent back to Gotham with my magic space ring, idiot._ “To your kids.”

Bruce let his surprise take over his face for a moment, his brows furrowing like he’d never seen Hal before. He was halfway to saying, _have I got something on my face?_ When Bruce let out a small, ‘oh’.

“You look like you need to be home tonight.”

“I a-” Bruce began, but then the bathroom door swung open with an audible creak, and the sound of loud music and laughter flooded in.

A couple pairs of footsteps clacked along the tiles and Bruce crossed the distance between them, dropping his eyes to account for the inches he had on Hal, catching Hal’s gaze and holding it intently.

“Rooftop across the street, ten minutes.”

**

Bruce beat him to the rooftop and Hal found him standing right on the ledge, which might have been alarming if Bruce’s shoulders hadn’t been more relaxed than they’d been all night, and if his hands hadn’t been leisurely stuffed into his pockets. He was surveying the club across the street that they’d just come from.

Hal stepped up onto the ledge to join him, grimacing when he realised he could still hear the music from here.

“’Course you’d be more relaxed on the edge of a ten-storey building than you are in a nightclub, Spooky,” Hal joked half-heartedly.

Bruce angled his head to face him, eyes more piercing than they had been earlier, but not quite back to Batman-levels of clarity.

“Because you seemed so comfortable,” Bruce retorted.

If Hal wasn’t mistaken, he thought he saw the corner of Bruce’s mouth curl into the ghost of a smirk.

“I’m not the billionaire playboy.”

“ _Ex_ -playboy,” Bruce corrected.

Hal smirked himself then, making no attempt to hide it. He ran a hand idly through his hair – which was getting too long again – and Bruce watched him do it. The motion made Hal’s shirt ride up above his waistband just a little, and Bruce watched that, too.

“Well,” he said, when Bruce had spent entirely too much time staring at his navel, “Lucky me then.”

“Hm?”

“Eyes up here, Mister Ex-Playboy,” Hal laughed.

Somewhat begrudgingly, Bruce complied.

“I said,” Hal repeated with dramatic emphasis, “I’m lucky you retired your playboy schtick just for me.”

Bruce opened his mouth to correct him, but Hal only waggled his eyebrows and cut him off.

“Now come on, let’s have a bit of our kind of fun.”

With that, he hurled himself off the building, grabbing Bruce’s arm and dragging the “ex”-playboy with him.

Bruce adjusted to the fall almost immediately, even taking the time to glare at Hal before Hal caught them with a construct that was a perfect replica of the couch at his grandmother’s house.

Once seated properly, they soared up into the air and Hal encased them in a bubble to shield them from the harsh evening winds (and the speeds Hal was about to subject them to). Star City disappeared in a blur below them, and soon they were crossing state lines faster than most planes could cross county lines.

“You are insufferably childish,” Bruce said after a while, relaxing into the ethereal green sofa beneath him.

To Hal’s immense surprise, Bruce flopped down on it, his head landing in Hal’s lap. Some sort of test, no doubt, but Hal just leaned into it, slouching further back and sliding down under Bruce’s head. If it was a game of chicken they were playing now, Hal was determined to win.

Hal was thinking that Bruce could suck his dick from this position if he wanted to, when Bruce reached out and tugged Hal’s free hand – the one not occupied by the ring – into both of his own. Their hands just kind of rested there, on Bruce’s chest, for a long time.

“I don’t know how Oll can stand those places,” Hal said conversationally, once the silence became too much for him to bear (which wasn’t long, because Hal was no good at silences – he got enough of that in space, thank-you-very-much).

“Mm,” Bruce hummed, seemingly in agreement.

“No but really,” Hal continued, “How many people do you think were there? A few hundred? And how many of them do you think he actually knows?”

“The venue has a capacity of three-hundred and twenty-six,” Bruce replied immediately, like he was the Watchtower’s computer or something.

Hal snorted, partly at Bruce’s typical know-it-all bullshit, and partly at the enormity of the number.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “And Oliver has about three friends, including the two of us.”

That got a laugh out of Bruce. Hal almost jumped in surprise. It was a real laugh, not the type of fake shit Bruce Wayne gave to Gotham socialites and reporters. It was a warmth that shot up straight from his belly, and it made Hal smile and press his palm right up against Bruce’s cheek, which was as soft as Hal had imagined it to be.

He rubbed small circles on Bruce’s temple with his thumb. Bruce didn’t say anything, but his breath hitched the tiniest bit and he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from Hal’s.

Gotham was coming up fast on the horizon, and Hal reluctantly peeled his eyes away from Bruce’s to slow them down and guide them towards Wayne Manor. He could have gone to the Cave – should have – but instead he found himself setting them down gently by the fountain that adorned the centre of Wayne Manor’s grand, circular drive.

Hal noticed a few lights on inside, obscured partially by the fountain, as he set them down gracefully on the asphalt. They landed on their feet with a delicate crunch under a few stray pebbles, and Hal’s constructs and costume disappeared.

“Home sweet home,” Hal said with a hollow laugh.

He buried his hands in the pockets of his loose tan trousers, suddenly aware – in the shadow of Wayne Manor – of how cheap his outfit must look compared to Bruce’s. His shirt was brightly coloured and buttoned all the way to the top to draw attention away from the fact that it was a size too big, and his pants were baggy at the ankles, obscuring his cheap high-top sneakers.

“Go hug your kids, B,” he found himself saying forlornly, squeezing Bruce’s bicep before taking a step back, readying himself for take-off.

All that ex-playboy shit had been bullshit, right? Bruce was just having a bad night, and he needed some company. Hal could hardly blame him, because in a way he’d been seeking out the same. Maybe if it had been Clark, or Barry, or Oliver in that bathroom, he’d have done the same. He’d needed that human contact; to anchor him, to revive him. Gone was the panic attack from earlier. He felt human again, and he was sure Bruce did too.

And what would they do now? When they didn’t need each other anymore? Hurriedly suck each other off in the dark? And then what? Bruce would roll over in his own bed and Hal would sneak out of his window, a green shooting star in the night that was gone as quickly as it had come.

“You’re not coming?” Bruce asked and damnit, there was genuine surprise in his voice. And what else was that? Hurt?

“I…” Hal said, faltering.

It didn’t help that Bruce’s ass was right there and it was pretty much all Hal could see of him besides his broad shoulders and that goddamn hair that was sparkling in the moonlight like silk. Hal bet it felt like silk too, his conditioner alone probably cost more than Hal’s groceries did.

“What I was going to say, before,” Bruce said after a while.

His back was still to Hal, but he turned his head now, silhouetted by the lights coming from the Manor. And god, he was beautiful. Hal just said ‘huh’ dumbly.

“Earlier, in the bathroom,” Bruce clarified, and Hal nodded. “You told me that I looked like I needed to be home tonight.”

“Because you did,” Hal replied, walking around Bruce and hoisting himself up onto the edge of the fountain, where he sat, holding Bruce’s gaze, trying to understand what galaxy-brain bullshit Bruce was on now.

“And we got interrupted,” Bruce continued, “before I could answer.”

Hal shrugged. “Wasn’t much to say, B.”

“But there was,” Bruce insisted, his eyes coming alight now.

Hal had never seen them look so blue.

“-is,” Bruce corrected, taking a single, tentative step forward.

Hal could see all his features clear as day now. Those stupid high cheekbones and the way his eyes went from downturned and sad to determined in an instant.

“What I was going to say was that I already was home.”

And okay, this really was some galaxy-brain bullshit. Was the fucking Batman really about to convince him that his home was some dingy nightclub bathroom in Star City? He said as much, making some snarky comment, but even as the words, “Your home is a nightclub bathroom, Spooky? Come on,” were tumbling out of his mouth, it all clicked.

_Oh._

“And I’m home now,” Bruce said, glossing over Hal’s stupidity entirely, like if he didn’t say this now he might never say it at all.

Hal felt all the air leave his lungs as he watched Bruce close the distance between them, felt him cup Hal’s face in his hands. Hal was definitely crying now, but he didn’t feel it. He was too busy watching Bruce’s lips, waiting for him to finish, waiting for him to say it. And then Bruce was crying too – more like blubbering, actually. And when Bruce grabbed Hal’s hands and pressed them into his, suddenly he didn’t need him to say it anymore. He didn’t need Bruce to say anything, he knew.

He kissed Bruce first. Tentative and slow and impossibly gentle. Both of them sobbed through it like the absolute wrecks they were, and – contrary to their first kiss – this kiss was the best of Hal’s life.

Later, in the Manor, wrapped up in Bruce’s arms, Hal said, “We both needed to come home tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me [ on tumblr ]() for DC headcanons, memes and batfam humour posts


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